Poetry: I Tell You

I could not predict the fullness
of the day. How it was enough
to stand alone without help
in the green yard at dawn.

How two geese would spin out
of the ochre sun opening my spine,
curling my head up to the sky
in an arc I took for granted.

And the lilac bush by the red
brick wall flooding the air
with its purple weight of beauty?
How it made my body swoon,

brought my arms to reach for it
without even thinking.

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-Susan Glassmeyer

Design Love: Minimalism with Mjölk

Mjölk is a design gallery featuring work from Scandinavia and Japan, located in Toronto, Canada. Mjölk (which means “milk” and is pronounced Mi-yelk) is the branchild of curators John Baker and Juli Daoust, who strive for an aesthetic that is “pure, honest, and essential.”

I completely adore the stripped-clean minimalism of their pieces, with the beautiful lines and calming focus on functionality and ease of use.

HansWegnerrockingchair

Here is what they say about their store:

“Mjölk is both a gallery who exhibits work by both arists and artisans from Scandianvia and Japan, and also a lifestyle store; we look to our everyday life to find inspiration for the products we carry. Our smaller products can be used without thought, or quietly admired. In our eyes just the simple satisfaction of functionality and durability, is all you need for a successful product, but when you can derive beauty from the uttermost simplistic tools, then you have something special.”

kiltopenbookcaseNarachairShinAzumi

hiroshima-lounge-ottoman_1

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Secret Garden Webseries Introduces Dickon!!

As your resident webseries lover, it is my duty to inform you that The Misselthwaite Archives, which has been pleasant but mostly uninspired so far, finally introduced Declan Sower, based on Dickon of the book, and there are sparks and cuteness.

My Father Dreams of Ships

My father dreams of ancient banyan trees.
He sees ghosts in the tall temple grass,
smells rain on abandoned sugar cane.
He watches the ocean and waits.
Lately, he sees a tall ship in Honolulu Harbor,
silent and crewless, bobbing with the waves,
and my father thinks it is
there for him.

Listen, I tell him, that ship is all in your mind
,
but he counters, You see it too.
It’s true. I see it, pale and shifting
like Molokai sands.

My father dreams of battleships in flames,
and torpedoes flying over the Ko’olau.
He sees a young girl pin a hibiscus
behind her left ear 
as she descends the stairs.

-Trish Saunders, Silver Birch Press

Poetry: Sunset Park

The Chinese truck driver
throws the rope
like a lasso, with a practiced flick,

over the load:
where it hovers an instant,
then arcs like a willow

into the waiting,
gloved hand
of his brother.

What does it matter
that, sitting in traffic,
I glanced out the window

and found them that way?
So lean and sleek-muscled
in their sweat-stiffened t-shirts:

offloading the pallets
just so they can load up
again in the morning,

and so on,
and so forth
forever like that—

like Sisyphus
I might tell them
if I spoke Mandarin,

or had a Marlboro to offer,
or thought for a minute
they’d believe it

when I say that I know
how it feels
to break your own

back for a living.

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Patrick Phillips

LANA DEL REY INTERVENES WHEN SHE NOTICES I’VE STOPPED WRITING ABOUT MY EX

It’s good that he’s gone,
but don’t let him be too gone.
He’s got to be candle blown out
in the other room gone.
Or exhaust pipe
huffing down the block gone.
Not closure-gone. Not someone-else’s-
baby-gone. Not cut your hair gone.
He can’t ever be too far
away to hurt you, honey.
You can pedal away but make sure it’s a polaroid
of him clicking in your bicycle wheel down the boulevard.
Put a suitcase in a trunk and every state in between you
if you want, but when you turn on the radio,
search for his song.
Don’t get me wrong, you can love.
Megan Falley

Poetry: Ghost Walk

We used to overturn rocks on the shore
and expose them to the belly of the sun.
I knew that some rocks should not be moved
but you picked them up to skip pebbles
and slice fountains in the sea
where they were lost
and you were satisfied
because yours had skipped the farthest
and the deepest
while mine grew steam in my palm.

Your hand in mine was sandpaper.
When you closed your fingers I was a bottled neck
with no wings flapping but the heartbeat
of one chipped stone against another.

read more at Cadence Collective

-Robin Dawn Hudechek

Caffeinated Links: Far From the Madding Crowd, Steven Spielberg to Direct Ready Player One, ‘The Flash’ Stars Sing the Serenity Ballad

far from the madding crowd 2015 poster

Fox Searchlight released the first, gorgeous poster for the upcoming adaptation of Thomas Hardy’s Far from the Madding Crowd, starring Carey Mulligan and Matthias Schoenaerts.

In news that had me gibbering with nerdy glee, Steven Stielberg is to direct an adaptation of Ernest Cline’s Ready Player One. Ready Player One is a hugely popular sci-fi/dystopia novel that is a blast of inventive good fun as it follows the adventures of Wade Watts, a brilliant, somewhat overweight pop culture fanatic (I mention this because I wonder if the film will be true to this or replace him with someone who looks like, I don’t know, a Hemsworth) who spends his life, along with most of humanity, inside a massive virtual reality game.

The Flash‘s Jesse Martin, Carlos Valdez, and Rick Cosnett sing a gospel, acapella version of The Serenity Ballad and it is everything you want from life. Apparently it was a big thank-you to Joss Whedon for donating a large sum to their Kickstarter project.

Peter Quince at the Clavier

ken howard, the blue dress

The Blue Dress, Ken Howard

UST as my fingers on these keys
Make music, so the self-same sounds
On my spirit make a music, too.
Music is feeling, then, not sound;
And thus it is that what I feel,
Here in this room, desiring you,
Thinking of your blue-shadowed silk,
Is music.

-from Peter Quince at the Clavier, Wallace Stevens

She Walks in Beauty

At_the_Shrine jww

At the Shrine, John William Waterhouse

She walks in Beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which Heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o’er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express,
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!

-Lord Byron

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